


we are young supernovas (and the heat's about to break)

by eggosandxmen



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Ableism, Autism, Autism Speaks, Autistic Laura Kinney, Gen, POV Second Person, Special Interests, The Kinneys Are Safe, from lauras pov... the 'you' is laura, laura kinney is on the spectrum and mentally ill and i dare u to argue, quiet hands, this is rapidly just turning into a bunch of one shots, you can’t stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-06-23 03:01:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggosandxmen/pseuds/eggosandxmen
Summary: You have your Things about you.





	1. Chapter 1

Space is _wonderful._

Space is the _best,_ because your memories of space are always good. There is no space in cold labs in the woods or stars in hell and there are no stars when you are half-dead and your best friend’s boyfriend is trying to grow your skin back with golden fingers, but there are always constellations when you are fourteen and you see your first meteor shower with your cousin on the roof of their house and there are planets through your father’s friend’s telescope that he said you can use whenever you want ( _whenever you want!!_ ) and there are asteroids when your teacher took pity on your bored classmates and beamed-you-up-scotty to space, as she called it (the gear felt so good and if you were not already a superhero you would choose being an astronaut, the first clone in space, probably, how absolutely breathtaking is that!!)

Whenever you think about space your brain gets all fast and so you start moving to get it out, pacing around and flapping your hands and popping your claws out and in and out again and talking more in a few minutes than you had for the first thirteen years of your life. Someone always listens, sometimes Sooraya in your old room when neither of you can sleep and sometimes Gabby when you are trying to explain how suns explode, it does not quite matter who but it does matter that there is someone, because you cannot do it to yourself, your Thing needs to be heard and witnessed by others who have never witnessed how Good it is.

It is your Thing and you do not think your Thing will ever Not be space, because it is infinite and there is always more to learn and see and do in the stars. It is not like fighting, which you have known back-and-forth since you were created but not because you _wanted_ to, not like how you wanted to learn more about the solar system and you felt so good about it that Ororo brought you to the library in town for new books. (You had a hard time speaking to the librarian but it was all worth it because you got four (four!) books on Jupiter and the moons surrounding it and you got to _learn!_ ) It was not training, it was not work, it was _fun,_ it was enjoyable for you and no one else profited from it and that within itself was wonderful.

You have that side of your Thing and you also have other Things about you. You have your Thing with not using contractions _ever_ (they do not feel right and no one really cares about it, apparently, so you continue with your _do not_ and your _they are_ and no one objects). There is also your Thing with clothing- only sweatshirts, even in the heat of August, and only jeans to go with them, and always always _always_ your necklace on the middle of your neck, only taken off to shower or for check-ups after missions and tied immediately back on afterwards. 

Kitty calls that a comfort object, like her old C-3PO figure and Jubilee’s cowboy hat, and she makes you a small electronic tile so you can find it should you ever lose it on a mission. You lose it only once and proceed to go non-verbal for a solid two hours until Kitty finds you in the rafters of the Danger Room and coaxes you down long enough to use her remote to find your necklace again, tucked in your uniform, coated in blood but otherwise unmarked.

She helps you get in on, tied the Right Way that she apparently took the time to learn (for you! she learned it for you!) and then she takes you to the kitchen and makes scrambled eggs in the middle of the afternoon. 

That was a Good part of that day and you had your necklace, so of course it was. Megan had given it to you, so it was what made everything better and kept her safe. If anything were to happen to it, you would not be able to protect Megan.

(You realize that this is not how these things work, but the necklace makes you feel safe anyway.)

Lastly there is your Thing with your movement. Your hands always rest under your head when you sleep, your body curled into a ball, facing either left or right and never straight up. These things must be occurring or you will never fall asleep, and even when you are in the Right way sometimes your brain still decides to move too fast _(did I do my homework where is Cessily how quickly could you get to the moon what page did I leave off on are my hands my own am I real is anything real?_ ) for you to ever drift into sleep. Josh let you borrow his weighted blanket for those nights. It helps the thoughts slow down. When that does not work, you run around the halls until your brain feels safe again and no one objects, not even the half-asleep teachers.

The Things that make you up are alright at Xavier’s, which is apparently rare in the human world for the not-gifted and non-mutated. You pray you never have to live in that world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kitty and laura vs. Weird Neurotypical Lady: Fight!!
> 
> Much love to River, my amazing friend who beta’d this. ❣️ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self projection hours!

Eye contact is maddening. Eye contact and words and movements that _everyone else_ seems to manage Just Fine do not work for you, do not come out the way they are meant to no matter what you try.   
If you look at someone in the eye it hurts, like spiders crawling up your spine and skittering around your fingers until you have to move, have to get Away from the Staring, so you run or you look away and you snap your fingers and that person pretends not to notice.  
The X-men, especially Cyclops, do not seem to mind eye contact. You and Mr. Summers have a long conversation completely in sign language with neither of you looking at each other in the eye and he does not mind, even when you start humming happily when the conversation turns to a book you love. He is good in that way, never making you speak or look or stop when you do your Movements.  
(No one in the mansion seems to try to stop you when you do your Movements! It is wonderful!)  
The way you are is accepted and fascinating and completely normal until you go outside among the humans for the first time, a city day with your classmates and Kitty, Ms. Frost, and Ms. Munroe along as chaperones.  
They all love your Things and you love Their Things- Julian’s plants and Josh’s birds and Sooraya’s music and Santo’s _The Hobbit _and Cessily’s cheerleading- so you all do those things with each other happily. You visit a small garden near the skyscrapers of New York and stop at a bookstore so Santo can look at the new hardcover versions of the Lord of the Rings series that he had been excited about for months.  
You wander off to the non-fiction section, browsing next to a middle aged woman who smells of too much perfume.   
You run your fingers along the spines of the books on stars, grinning ear to ear and bouncing on your heels.  
Kitty peeks her head around the corner, glancing at you and smiling. “Lau, the others are in the fantasy section when you’re done, ‘kay? I’m with you, though.”  
You nod, looking at the book you have in your hands instead of Kitty but knowing she realizes that you are listening.   
You open the book and flip through the pages, looking at the pictures in wonder and flapping the hand that isn’t holding onto it.  
Kitty looks over, eyebrow raised. “Like it?”  
You nod, because there are facts you did not know before and it makes you so excited you nearly _burst_ from all the Loud Happy Things you are feeling deep in your chest (all these Loud Happy Things that feel so good and right and make you feel as though you are soaring)!!   
Kitty laughs. “Want me to hold it? You can read it on the way out.”   
You nod, signing a quick _thank you_ and passing the book to her. Once your hands are free you immediately grab for the chewing necklace that Hank had made especially for you (your teeth are too sharp for normal stim toys, almost fangs, but Hank is a _scientist_ and he made the necklace for you after you accidently broke your finger from biting it so hard).   
You chew on it quickly, hands a blur as you flap and talk to Kitty about the new information in your loud-soft way, volume control completely gone from your mind as you explain the new science.  
Kitty’s eyes light up and she asks questions which you answer happily, the two of you leaning on bookcases as you talk.  
You do not notice the perfume woman moving until she clears her throat, addressing Kitty. “You should really teach him not to do that thing with his hands. People will think he’s stupid.”  
Kitty’s demeanor changed at once, eyes going stormy. “That’s my kid sister, and you’ll mind your own fucking business about what she does.”  
The woman wrinkled her nose and you stop flapping, hands feeling heavy and dropping to your sides as the smile slides off your face.  
“See?” the woman said, nodding in satisfaction. “If you’re firm with them, they’ll stop.”  
You _really_ want to growl at her, but Kitty takes your hand and squeezes it quickly, a reminder of _not scaring the flatscans._ You bite it down and simply scowl.  
“Please kindly fuck off,” Kitty snaps, and the woman glares.   
“It’s a distraction to me! Just because you can’t control him doesn’t mean we should have to deal with this. Haven’t you tried Autism Speaks, or something?”  
Kitty’s jaw sets, and you realize just how supremely dead this woman is.  
“Don’t talk to her like she’s not there- just ‘cause she’s mostly non-verbal doesn’t mean she can’t hear you. Autism Speaks is a horrible organization and over my dead body will any of my family ever be dragged there. And if you ever try some kind of dumbass quiet-hands lecture on any of my siblings again, I swear I’ll clock you.”  
The woman gasped and Kitty turned around, stalking out of the section and pulling you along.   
Your hands still feel heavy and now you feel _wrong,_ even though Kitty has your book and your chewie is still on your neck, right under your necklace.   
Kitty pays for the book quickly, walking out of the shop and sitting you down at a small table outside of an Ice Cream Parlor.  
You whisper a “ _stop_ ,” voice mimicking the woman’s without meaning to, over and over until Kitty looks over, letting go of your hand and sighing. “You alright, babe?”  
“Stop, stop, stop,” you repeat, word looping around out of your mouth and tears springing into your eyes.  
“Aw, Laura,” she says. “Don’t listen to them. They think being autistic is a thing you can cure.”   
“Stop,” you say again, for good measure, and then you glance up at her, signing in rapid little movements, hands still mostly in your lap. _Autistic?_  
“Yeah,” Kitty replied, hands tapping her chest. “It’s what we are. And Scott, and Jules, and Ororo, and Jean, and Cessily. It’s a different way of functioning from other people, and it’s not bad, and you don’t need a cure and you _don’t_ need to ever stop stimming. That’s the hand movements you do, and your chewing.”   
You nod. _I thought it was a mutation side effect._  
Kitty giggles. “Nah, some flatscans are like us too.”  
 _What does it do?_ you ask, and Kitty gets that Look she has when she talks of Star Wars.  
“Well, most of us have trouble with social cues, have sensory issues, and have special interests- our Things, you know. There’s lots of other stuff, but everyone has it different! There’s no wrong way to be autistic, and it doesn’t need a cure, no matter what that lady said.”   
You nod and she tries for a smile. “How’s’a’bout I buy you some ice cream and we look at the books we got, then head home?”  
The tightness in your chest lifts a little and you nod.  
You’re lucky you have Kitty to help build your crumbling-self up again, you decide,  
And make a resolution to pay her back for the book.  
(The ice cream tastes very good and your hands are whacking around the table like no tomorrow within a few minutes.)__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos and comments are so appreciated! this story means a lot to me and I’m so happy with the support it’s getting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw fr meltdowns and blood!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this is still going hell yeah self projection

It was too much. That was what set you off first.

Normally you can force your brain into boxes, learned mannerisms taking over your actual self so you can smile-laugh-talk-behave during these events, these events, these events of high society that absolutely none of you wanted to attend.   
They were parties for the rich and the famous, and the people that Warren-Bird-Boy worked with came here, so Warren had to take a few of you along a month, to show how safe and sweet and soft these mutant weapons he was raising were (and, in Remy’s case, how many wallets one man could steal in a night). 

You had volunteered in place of Victor, because he did not want to wear a suit, so you donned a dress and you squeezed Nori’s hand tight and you walked in with a gracious smile on your lips.

(These mutants seemed to have their children at beck and call, the humans whispered, and you looked over at Remy until he came to rescue you.)

Still, the dress itched and your hair was touching your shoulders in the Wrong way and you wanted to whack your hands against each other more than anything but a voice in the back of your head reminded you that normal children did not move like toddlers, like a baby, like some weird thing. So you keep your hands under your legs until someone starts screaming along to a song playing. Others join, high-reedy-Bad-chorus-of-voices blasting full force on you.

The screams pierce your head until you feel as if your ears are bleeding and your dress itches and your feet hurt and it’s too bright, so you stumble out of your seat and you _run,_ outoutoutout to the street. You barely even notice your shoes fall off so you are running barefoot on the street, only realizing when the bloody soles of your feet leaving a trail behind you.

You force open the door to home and you keep running, running, running until you reach the danger room, shut down for the late hour. 

You tug the door open and you crash onto the floor, mouth out of your control (you hear yourself screaming but you make no effort to stop) and hands shaking as you pull on the hoodie Logan always leaves on the bench. 

Normally you would feel okay now but this is not normally, not right now, because your head still aches at every creak the mansion gives.

Your claws pop out and you shove them into the wall next to you until only an inch of metal is left outside of it, ripping open the steel until the pressure of it releases some of the bad in your chest.

The alarms begin blaring and the bad comes back, tears in your eyes as you rip your claws out of the wall and your hands begin to blur, hitting your face and your chest and the floor, and you scream again, screamloudloudloudly until your hands cover your ears. 

(Are they even your hands? You are not sure what is real in this meltdown, if the hands are yours or this room is real or you are here.)

Your breath comes out in short gasps and you finally stop your whirlwind, dropping onto your knees as the alarm goes on and on and on and on. There’s blood dripping from your knuckles, and you want it off! You want all of the red off, all of the terrible horrible liquid removed from your hands and your chest and your heartbeat.

You barely hear a voice above you, soft and melodic, but you can smell flowery perfume and another person, clouds and rainfall and the earth, almost covering up the bloody-finger poison. The alarm stops at the click of a button that you scarcely hear.

“Laura, sweetheart, can you hear me? Can we touch you?”

Jean, jeanjeanjean, firebird-jean, older-jean, and Ororo next to her. You do not respond except with another cry and her heartbeat quickens, you can tell that much.

“Okay, kiddo, what do you need? If you’re non-verbal, try to sign it, okay?”

Jean was always good in a crisis, Logan had said once. Okay, okay, okay, you think, and you whack your hands around again, fasterlouderfaster than before.

“The blood,” you choke out. “Get it off off off off _off!_ ”

“Okay, okay, we’re gonna touch you, okay?”

Ororo’s hands lift you up and she carries you out, even though you are nearly fourteen, you are nearly fourteen and six feet tall, but Ororo is managing and Jean is behind you, freckles glowing in the soft light of the hallways.

Ororo puts you down on the counter and passes you a can of clay, one of the several she has stacked on the windowsill. You press on it and try not to be fiery-bright again, and Ororo turns on the tap water and takes your hand gently, rubbing off the blood with soap and not a word of anger. She did not smell angry to you, just worried, anxiety in the way she stood and the way her breath came. 

The blood was gone, that was the relevant thing, the sounds had stopped and you are wrapped in your father’s hoodie, all the Bad screamed out of you. Jean is looking at you from one of the tables and you shake, hands pressed together, but Jean does not scream either, just gives a soft smile and whispers to Ororo that she can handle the rest.

She helps you down from the counter and lets you lean on her until you reach your room, Sooraya still out at the party. Jean helps you when you stumble and gets you into bed and turns the light off with a soft sigh.

“Stay safe, Lau, and get us if you need anything else.”

You almost miss the _I love you_ that comes after it. You find it in yourself to say it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks fr any feedback ❣️❣️❣️


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laura takes the sisters home after a long fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zelda’s alive and Bell is okay because I said so.
> 
> Less focus on Laura, I just wanted something short and soft today.

You have to drive the tank home. 

Zelda is the normal driver, you think, a Z carved clearly on the dashboard, but the three of them (the sisters? _your_ sisters?) had fallen asleep in the back seat about thirty seconds after you had piled in, Captain Mooney’s blood still coating Bellona’s hands and face. 

Gabby’s mask is off and she’s curled right on Zelda’s lap, the older girl leaning on the back wall with Bellona passed out on her shoulder. They look almost peaceful and you do not have the heart to wake them, so you drive home in silence, parking behind your apartment and pushing open the driver seat door as quietly as you can.

You are going to have to carry them in.

You cannot take all three of them at once, so you do three trips, up and down two flights of stairs. You take Bellona up first, barely able to lift the taller girl, and drop her on your own bed before padding back down.

Gabby is next, and she doesn’t even stir, just puts her head on your shoulder as you push the door open with your foot, ignoring the startled looks from other tenants.

You walk up the stairs as fast as you can, reconsidering your plan of leaving Bellona alone in your apartment with your breakable belongings, but you have a child (a literal child! You are taking after your father!) in your arms so you cannot run properly. So you power walk, in your super hero costume, to your apartment, and you put Gabby down next to Bellona and stumble back down to get Zelda.

Once you get the three of them situated, tucked in carefully under the covers as best as you could without waking them, you lay down on the couch in your flappy-hoodie (the sleeves cover your hands and it is soft and warm and weighted, a gift from Scott years earlier). It’s the early hours of the morning and you and the others smell of ash and blood but you do not focus on that, head running in a thousand different directions. How will you take care of them, how will you protect them, what if they are hurt?

You do not think you can sleep, but within a few minutes you are nodding off anyway, lock firmly bolted and eyes able to glance at the door to your bedroom and count three heartbeats still thumping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos mean a lot!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is super short but here's a really quick autistic trans laura + sarah lived.... dont ask me how sarah held her down because i DONT know this is sort of leading up to something, probably, maybe.

Your mother was the one who built you, of course. She molded your genes from the piece of you that came from your father, filling in the gaps with the bits and pieces that made you Other, made you something New, made you ex-dash-twenty-three-sub-set-six-oh-nine, a new weapon for the modern world. 

You do not know if your Other is entirely due to your gene frame. When you were small, you chafed against being called _he_ by your mother almost as much as you did _it_ by everyone else, but you did not say anything, ignoring the worming feeling in your head by biting on your fingers or your knuckles of your arm, which left small holes the size of your incisors. The holes never stayed.

You did not biet yourself as you ran out of the lab, but your forearm and upper arm pressed together like a reptile you had once seen a picture of, wrists bent backward until you saw your mother and your world faded to black. 

Now your Other is manifesting again, light coming back in while your hands slap the snow pressing on your bare arms.Your mother holds you down, saying something you cannot understand very well but realize you should likely listen to (should you listen to her, now that you are Out and Free? That would be the logical plan). 

The black finally fades from your peripheral vision and you notice that you are not covered in her blood, that the Trigger did not work as it should. Your first thought is that _you_ did something wrong, but the words your mother is now whispering to you are not angry, just soft and empty reassurances.

“Did I complete the mission?” you ask, and she makes a noise between a laugh and a sob. 

“Yes. You did good. You did so good, honey.”

She let go of you and you stand up, staring at her until she does another of her laughs and takes your hand carefully, not seeming to mind the dirt and the blood.


End file.
